


Ready to Run

by earlgay_milktea



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Established Relationship, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Forbidden Love, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Mage Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Prince GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), Tragedy, i recommend listening to 'secret love story part 2' while reading this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-26
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-17 22:14:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29724015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earlgay_milktea/pseuds/earlgay_milktea
Summary: George was getting married, and it wasn’t to Dream.
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 21
Kudos: 80





	Ready to Run

“What if we just ran away?” mused Dream. “What if — instead of sitting in court every day, listening to people argue over nothing — we just walked away? We just leave?”

George just chuckled. “Where would we go?”

“I guess I’d go back home,” said Dream, low with sleep. He was lying under the blankets while George sat up against the headboard, head pillowed on George’s lap as a hand gently carded through his hair. “I could resign from my position as court mage.”

“And find work someplace else?”

“It’d be easy.”

George chuckled, and Dream felt the tremors of it. “Awfully confident for someone who’s never worked outside the palace.”

“Says you,” grumbled Dream.

“Touché.”

The light that filtered through the curtains was grey and watery. In a few short minutes, the horizon would bleed pink and the sky would call itself blue, but for now, it was Dream and George at the in-between, in that hazy threshold of day and night.

“I guess you could stay with me,” Dream said flippantly, like it was an afterthought. “We might have the space.”

“Might?” George repeated, amusement in his voice.

Dream flipped onto his back so he could see George’s face. The sight stole his breath away; George looked like a reverie come to life, sleep-shirt slipping down one shoulder, rumpled hair, smile like a sunrise blooming across his face when he gazed down at Dream, and Dream could do nothing but stare back, as if he was but the loadstone in a compass and George was true north.

 _I love you_ , he wanted to say, but he wouldn’t know how to continue.

Words were powerful. To speak something was to bring it into existence, to promise its mark upon the world, and whatever grew between Dream and George couldn’t ever reach for the sun.

“You could stay with me if there’s no spare room,” said Dream, trying to drown out those thoughts. “I know your delicate princely sensibilities might be offended—”

“I guess if I _really_ have to.”

“—or you could stay on the couch.”

“No, thank you,” George said too quickly, too tellingly.

The air stilled for one precarious, honeyed moment, before Dream was saying: “George, you’re so obvious.”

“Like you have room to talk!” he said, his composure dissolving into giggles. Feeling hopelessly endeared, Dream reached out for one of George’s hands, brought it to his mouth, and kissed the back of it. He paused for a second, looking back up at George, who was still preoccupied in his mirth, so Dream continued, kissing a trail downward, each one lingering more than the last. His knuckles. The first joint of his middle finger. His ring finger.

George abruptly stopped giggling. Instead, he stared down at Dream, something darker starting to coalesce behind his eyes. 

“Dream,” he said in warning.

Dream absently pressed his lips to George’s knuckles. “Hm?”

George’s eyebrows drew together. “Stop that.”

“Stop what?” said Dream, making sure his mouth was touching George’s skin the whole time.

Something like helplessness flickered behind George’s eyes, but the rest of his face was set in a frown. Set in something that looked like cool disdain, that looked like the mask he’d pull down to wear in front of the court, that looked like the image of the crown prince that everyone expected him to be. It made him look loftier, completely unaffected by Dream’s advances. And that made Dream feel hot-cold all over — double-edged embarrassment and desire warring within him.

George’s other hand moved down from Dream’s hair to the back of his neck. Dream fought down a shiver as George began to knead the sensitive flesh there.

“You’re making it really hard not to kiss you,” George said nonchalantly.

Dream really did shiver at that. Seeing that, George’s gaze turned downright searing, and Dream felt the weight of it like a thumb pressing down on his lips, so he parted them all the same, and watched George’s eyes drink in the movement, deeply and greedily.

“Then do it,” Dream said.

“You know I can’t.” George’s voice sounded reprimanding and regretful all at once. “You know _we_ can’t.”

And Dream knew. God damn it all, he knew.

There were expectations to be met, appearances to maintain, lines that mustn’t be crossed.

There was a crown hanging over George’s head like a guillotine. There was a destiny carved in its iron. There was a story composed in his stead, the nib of the pen dipped in his blood.

And Dream, try as he might, could never be written into its ending.

Following George’s coming-of-age ceremony, envoys from neighbouring kingdoms started sending gifts, and whispers of a royal marriage arose. Though George had turned all his suitors away, Dream knew, sooner or later, that something had to give. It was simply the norm; royalty was promised off as quickly as possible to ensure stronger relationships between kingdoms.

And, sure enough, it finally happened.

Yesterday, George had gone to a meeting that lasted hours. He came out of it ashen-faced and shaking. That night, he’d beckoned Dream into his room, and they lay curled-up in his bed chatting nonsense until one of them fell asleep.

George wouldn’t tell him what happened in that meeting, but it wasn’t hard to figure out.

The fact of the matter was this: Dream was a court mage, and he was also a commoner. He came from a no-name town at the fringes of the kingdom. His exceptional magical skill was only discovered when a palace worker was sent to collect surveys, and found him coaxing a flower back to life. Magic was found in all living beings, but everyone had affinities for different types of magic: elemental, healing, scrying, and so forth. An affinity for life-giving was rare. It was also terrifying because its inverse application could be true. The palace worker immediately sent word to the court mage of that time, and Dream was whisked away to a world of steepled towers, fluttering robes, and utter alienation.

There were other children learning magic, of course. But they were all children of nobles and mages, and Dream was a stain on an otherwise pristine cloth, a commoner’s red amongst the blue-blooded. His demeanour was earnest but clumsy, he didn’t have any courtly manners, and he was frequently homesick to the point of crying; a combination which made effective material for bullying.

Which was how George found him one day: weeping silently behind a curtain. George had offered him a handkerchief and sat with him until he stopped crying, but Dream had felt so embarrassed about it all that he’d ran. It was only later, standing in the safety of his dorms, that Dream realised he didn’t return the handkerchief.

He looked for George the following day, found him, pressed the square of cloth (now cleaned) back into his hands, and started tripping through an apology, only to come to a humiliated halt when George started laughing.

“You seem alright,” he’d said. And then: “Wanna be friends?”

“Yes!” Dream blurted without a second thought.

And here they were today: a crown prince and his court mage, lying together in bed, something undeniably non-platonic simmering in the air between them.

George breathed out shakily, closing his eyes. When he opened them again, some of that searing desire had faded, but only a little. When he looked at Dream, there was something hopeless, something resigned — in that stare, like he’d long decided to relinquish his heart, and he no longer cared about what Dream did with it. “We won’t be able to hide anymore.”

What they’d done so far — long glances, embraces, sleeping in the same bed — were things that could be walked away from. As blurred as the lines were, you could still take a step back. You could return to some semblance of normality. You could stop.

And if they were to kiss, Dream wasn’t sure if he’d be able to stop.

Instead, he just said: “You’re not putting much faith in my acting abilities.”

“It’s not _you_ I’m worried about.”

“Oh?” said Dream, lilting up at the end, deliberately teasing, deliberately calculating. “You must really like me, huh?”

A sardonic smile tugged at George’s lips. “Just a little.” His gaze kept flicking down to Dream’s mouth, and the pull of it was so intoxicating, so unbearably sweet, Dream couldn’t take it anymore.

“George…”

He didn't have to say anything else. George understood, and the light in his face turned cold. 

“Dream, no.”

Dream shifted out from beneath the blankets, pulled himself up until he was sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with George.

“How much time is left?” he asked lowly.

George frowned, confused. “What do you mean?”

Dream shouldn’t say this. He shouldn’t ask this of George, shouldn’t put him on the spot, but—

“How much time is left until your wedding?”

George stilled. His eyes went wide and panicked, a reel of emotions flickering across his face — betrayal, anger, misery — before he reined it back in, drew a steel curtain around himself. 

“I should’ve known better to hide that from you,” he admitted.

“Yeah.”

“I — I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright.”

“No, it’s not.” George tipped his head back, breathed deeply, shakily. The morning light had disappeared from within him, and Dream realised, with a sick lurch, that _he_ was the one who did that.

“We don’t have to talk about it—”

“Six months.”

Dream’s next inhale caught in his throat. “That’s… a long time.”

“It’ll be over before I know it,” said George, soft and resigned. His hand found Dream’s and he traced over the palm of it, achingly gentle, like he was laying a bookmark to a memory. Like he was already turning the page. “I’m an engaged man, Dream.”

George was getting married.

George was getting married, and it wasn’t to Dream.

Something ragged and hard-edged rose up from within, shuddering through him with the force of a scream. It was all Dream could do to rein it in, to swallow back that flood of white-hot emotion and not burst into tears there and then. He’d _known,_ but the quiet knowledge of it couldn’t compare to hearing it being said out loud. 

George watched Dream like he was made of glass. He watched Dream like he was expecting to see him shatter, and Dream could laugh with the irony of it all: even now, even after the announcement of his own engagement, he was _still_ looking out for Dream.

A shaft of sunlight brushed against his cheek, turning him burnished and silver, glinting like steel in his eyes, highlighting the tight clench of his jaw — and Dream realised, all at once, that George was _scared_. Scared of how much he loved Dream. Scared that the King would find out and make life a living hell for Dream, because for all that George was powerless in deciding his own marriage, he was still the crown prince, and he was protected by that fact. Dream had no title, no background. He was a commoner who crawled up the ranks with nothing but skill and effort alone, and with a single word, the King could send him toppling back down. Could strip him of his position and sever him from George forever. But if they stayed quiet, they could at least remain together after George’s marriage. Even if they couldn’t love out loud, they could stay by each other’s side, caught in a careful orbit for the rest of their lives.

Dream tried to picture it. He imagined George ten years in the future. He imagined another throne beside George’s, and a child with his brown eyes running through the halls. He imagined himself and George, a King and his loyalest mage, and the slow, agonising death of whatever bloomed between them, the smothering of an ember before it could turn into a flame. They might eventually settle into something of a friendship, but the shadows of _what if_ and _what could’ve been_ would grow and grow until one of them snapped first, left for good, or—

Or they would remain. Bodies misaligned, barely touching. Teeth clenched against all the words they didn’t say.

Dream wanted to tear that future into shreds. He wanted to set it aflame like a wooden bridge, wanted George to be able to forge his own way ahead. He wanted the power to write an ending where he and George could remain together.

He wanted—

“If we don’t kiss right now, when’s the next time we’ll get the chance?” he blurted, angry and fearful and loving in equal measure, the whirlwind of emotion almost choking him. He gathered George’s hands in his, and said, cruelly: “After your wedding?”  
George’s eyes sharpened. “ _Dream.”_

 _“What?”_ snapped Dream. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t what he wanted to say. But the words rose up quicker than he could quell them, raw and jagged. “You’re getting married in six months — so what? You haven’t even met your fiancé!”

His words brought George to some kind of boiling point, visible in the wild light that came to his eyes, the urgency in his tone when he said, “Shut up.”

Dream tipped his chin up. “Make me.”

The moment felt fraught, electric. Like they were teetering on some great precipice. A waiting, yawning abyss. Nothing but jagged cliffs and rock below.

There were no upsides to this. Either the King would find out and punish them severely, or he wouldn’t, and Dream and George would have to continue their charade until the wedding day arrived, and beyond that.

Compared to all of that, what was a kiss?

Nothing. Everything.

What was this, but a heartsick boy’s deluded fantasy? What was this, but clutching at straws against time and fate?

What was love, but—

“A _chance,”_ said Dream, ragged with emotion. He searched George’s face, trying to wrangle his feelings into words, trying to take the intangible and present it like a bouquet of flowers, like a platter with his heart on it. “Take a chance on us. I don’t care if it’s only for six months, because—” _because at least I would’ve held you, kissed you, and had you for every day you were able. At least you will part knowing that I loved you, and will continue to._ “—because even six months would be worth it. Forget about your engagement. Forget about the kingdom. It’s just us right now.”

George’s gaze lowered, and his brow was pinched tight, angry with Dream. Angry with himself. Angry with — everything. “It won’t be like this forever.”

“I know,” said Dream. “All the more reason to, right?”

George glared, and it lodged somewhere in Dream’s chest like an arrow, sharp and swift, and stayed there. It was all heat and no venom, and Dream found himself leaning forward, magnetised, wordlessly begging George to close the distance between them.

“No one else has to know,” continued Dream, his breath brushing over George’s cheek, a barely-there brush of sensation, and this was typically where he’d be pushed away, except he wasn’t, and—

George wasn’t glaring anymore. That flickering anger had been snuffed, and all that remained was dark and sticky want, and it made him look completely amendable to all of Dream’s whims, like he’d go anywhere and everywhere, no matter the risk; wherever Dream wanted to take him.

“No one else,” George said, devout and whisper-soft.

And then he was leaning closer, placing a hand on Dream’s jaw to turn his face, and—

He pressed a kiss close to the corner of Dream’s mouth, and pressed a thumb to the place he just kissed like he was pinning it there for safe-keeping. Guarding a memory. His mouth then touched down on the other corner, lingering.

And then George kissed him properly. And then Dream surged to meet him, kissing back with a ferocity that surprised even himself.

Finally. _Finally._

George made a sound caught somewhere between a sigh and a moan, and Dream devoured it eagerly, splaying his palms across George’s back, crowding into him until he could feel their heartbeats thumping in tandem.

How much was too much? How much was too little? How much longer until one of them needed to pull away for breath? Questions circled in Dream’s mind, vying for attention, but he couldn’t care less about them, because—

George broke away with a startled gasp. His lips were kissed-red and shiny and it was intoxicating to Dream, knowing that _he_ was the one who caused that, so he let George catch his breath for just a moment before leaning back in.

The second kiss was softer, but no less intense. This was the fruition of a love that’d grown too much and too wild, this was a plant seeing sunlight at last, overgrowing and choking out the rest of the garden. This was what they’d danced around for ages, held back by a delicate little thread of resolve and fear and the looming threat of _consequences,_ but Dream couldn’t find it within himself to care anymore.

George’s eyelashes feathered over his cheek, and it all felt so _precious_ , a kind of dearness that Dream couldn’t quite put words to, so he just kept kissing back and hoped George didn’t notice the stutter in his breath.

Fuck the rest of the kingdom. Fuck the King. Fuck whatever chain of events led to George becoming engaged — the marriage wasn’t for months to come, and when it did happen, at least Dream could make it so that George never forgot this moment. At least he could hold George like this before anyone else did. At least he could keep this memory.

“I love you,” Dream gasped when they pulled away, because what was one more transgression? “Stay with me, please, even if it’s only for a while—”

“I will,” George said, and it rung true the way that promises did. “I will.”

**Author's Note:**

> if you want to cheer yourself up, consider reading my other story, 'Saltwater Secrets', which contains little to no angst! 
> 
> will I continuing this? maybe. but right now, I think it works perfectly well as a standalone, and if I were to write a sequel, I'd put considerably more words into it, so that'd take a while. 
> 
> thanks for reading! kudos and comments make my day; even if it's just copying a sentence you enjoyed, that would be much appreciated!


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